


the past beats inside me

by Spikedluv



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cameo by Allison Argent, Cameo by Cora Hale, Cameo by Derek Hale, Cameo by Jordan Parrish, Cameo by Stiles Stilinski, Cameo by Talia Hale, Cameo by Tara Graeme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26545708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: FBI Agent Chris Argent left Beacon Hills over twenty years ago and he never expected to return, but a case that includes a dead body, a painting, and a motel key draws him back.  All Chris wants to do is solve the case and leave, but a reunion with Peter Hale has Chris second-guessing whether that’s really what he wants.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale
Comments: 24
Kudos: 112
Collections: WIP Big Bang 2020





	the past beats inside me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rhysiana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysiana/gifts).



> This story was originally started for Rhysiana for Fandom Trumps Hate 2019. She asked for a White Collar inspired fic. After writing 10,000 words on this fic I ended up going in a different direction and promised to finish this fic as well. So here it finally is! Finished for wipbigbang 2020. Title taken from the quote below.
> 
> Thank you so much to Green for creating this cover! I adore it. Please go to her [art post](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546167) and tell her how awesome it is!
> 
> Posted: September 19. 2020
> 
> [ ](https://imgur.com/7a5SsRV)
> 
> _The past beats inside me like a second heart._ ~John Banville, The Sea

Butterflies set up home in Chris’s belly as he drove past the ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills’ sign. Beacon Hills had always felt too small for Chris, like it was suffocating him. Some of that, he knew, was his father’s heavy expectation that Chris would join the family business, but there were other things . . .

When Chris had gotten accepted to a college on the other side of the country, he’d snatched the opportunity to get away from Beacon Hills. He hadn’t looked back and hadn’t missed anything about Beacon Hills. And if he kept telling himself that he might even believe it someday.

Chris ignored the butterflies as he navigated his way to the Beacon County Sheriff Department. He didn’t look too closely at the ice cream place (closed for the season) where he’d worked every summer since he turned 14, or the diner where he could be found most Friday nights, or the bleachers behind the lacrosse field where he’d done more than watch lacrosse.

Chris was grateful when he reached his destination. He parked near the back so the Chevy Tahoe wouldn’t be seen easily from the street, as if anyone could look at it and determine that he was back in town for the first time in over twenty years.

Chris hadn’t bothered with a suit, which would’ve only gotten wrinkled all to hell on the drive up from L.A. He’d worn a brown leather jacket over a thin sweater (in a dark blue that he was told made his eyes ‘pop’) and a pair of blue jeans. Chris straightened the sweater and tugged on the bottom of the jacket until he realized that he was stalling.

Chris repeated the mantras he’d used to help himself escape Beacon Hills after graduation – you’re a good person, you deserve to be happy – as he strode to the front door of the station. They didn’t help now.

Chris let himself into the building and stepped up to the front desk. He’d hoped to fly under the radar, but Deputy T. Graeme picked up the phone and loudly announced to the Sheriff that Agent Argent was there to see him. Chris felt the weight of every eye in the place. He was relieved when the door to the Sheriff’s Office opened until he saw the man who emerged from it.

“Stilinski?” Chris said.

“Argent.” John stared at Chris long enough for Chris to squirm, then he tilted his head to indicate that Chris should follow him back into the office.

Chris followed slowly. As much as he wanted to get away from all the staring eyes, he wasn’t looking forward to this reunion. Chris didn’t know why he thought he’d be able to get through this visit without having to see anyone he’d known back then.

John was standing behind his desk by the time Chris walked into the office. He gestured for Chris to close the door, then sat. “Tell me about this case.”

“That’s it?” Chris said as he approached the desk. “Straight to business?”

“I figure there’s a reason you cut off all contact twenty years ago.” If John had been hurt by it, he didn’t let it show now.

“How’d you become sheriff? I thought you were going into the Army.”

John leaned back in the chair and draped his hands over the belt at his waist. “I did. You don’t need to make small talk with me to get my help on your case. But. If you’re actually interested we can talk after.”

John had an expectant air about him, so Chris nodded. He didn’t know whether to be glad for the reprieve or not. It meant he had to make a conscious choice to stay. To talk to people he had left behind. To reopen old wounds. Wounds that hadn’t fully healed; merely scabbed over.

Chris told John about the body they’d found with two items on it – a key for a local motel and a painting of a view of a lake from a porch, only the porch railing visible.

“So your John Doe’s only connection to Beacon Hills is the motel,” John said as he studied the pictures in the file Chris shared with him.

“Yes, but it’s also our only clue at all.” There hadn’t been any ID on the man and his finger prints hadn’t been in the system. Chris’s partner, Rafe McCall – who’d Rochambeaued Chris for which one of them had to make the drive to Beacon Hills – was following up on the painting.

“I don’t recognize the man,” John said. “I’ll send an officer with you to question the staff at the motel.”

“Thank you,” Chris said, following suit when John stood.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” John said with a hint of amusement. He handed the file back to Chris as he passed him.

“Laura!” John called out.

“Sheriff,” Laura said, not even pretending that she hadn’t been staring at the door with curiosity as the rest of the bullpen snapped back to work.

John gestured Laura over. “Accompany Agent Argent to the Beacon Motor Inn and assist him in questioning the staff.”

“Yes, sir.” Laura looked at Chris with a banked fire in her eyes. “Whenever you’re ready, Agent Argent.”

“Thank you.” Chris’s eyes dropped to her name tag, which read Deputy L. Hale. “Deputy Hale.”

John slapped Chris’s back. “You two have fun.”

~*~

Laura was silent on the drive to the motel. Chris had been thankful for the local assist to grease the wheels, but he was second guessing that now. No wonder John had been amused. Chris refused to admit that maybe he deserved it.

The woman working the reception desk at the Beacon, which was a fleabag twenty years ago, looked and sounded like she didn’t give two nickels about Chris’s case. Her name was Carla Weston and she only gave the photo of the dead man a cursory glance before saying, “Don’t recognize him,” in a gravelly voice.

Weston reluctantly confirmed that the key was one of theirs, despite the name of the motel stamped into it. When Chris asked to see the register, Weston pushed it over without argument, more interested in her e-cigarette and the afternoon talk show on the tiny tv that fit on the desk.

Chris had no idea when their John Doe had checked in, so he took a photo of the last couple pages and sent them to Rafe. Most of the names were obviously fake, but so far it was the only lead they had to the identity of the dead man.

When Chris asked to speak to the other staff, Weston gave him a look. “It’s just me and Judy. She cleans the rooms.”

“Is Judy here now?”

Weston shrugged. “Could be. Judy only comes in when she feels like it.”

Chris shuddered. He got Judy’s full name and address, then told Weston that he’d like to examine the room. Weston waved Chris off with a careless hand, then huffed when Chris reminded her that he’d need her to use the master to let them in because the key they’d found was in evidence. Weston turned around and grabbed a key off the pegboard and handed it to Chris.

Chris stared at the key, which was stamped with the same room number. “When did you replace the key?”

“Didn’t. We lose ‘em all the time, so we keep extras on hand. Don’t really pay attention.”

“You don’t change the lock when you lose a key?”

Weston gave him another look.

“What was I thinking?” Chris muttered. He caught sight of Laura’s expression, which was both amused (at Chris’s predicament, no doubt) and horrified.

Chris took the key and Weston was back to watching her show before they exited the office. Chris knocked on the door to room 5 before inserting the key into the lock and letting them in. The record-keeping, as well as keeping track of keys, didn’t seem to be a high priority, which would make it difficult to determine when their John Doe had been here.

Chris used a rubber glove to turn the knob and to flip the light switch when he got inside. The room was empty and the bed made, but there was dust on the dresser and it appeared that the rug hadn’t been vacuumed for at least a month.

Chris handed a pair of gloves to Laura, who’d followed him silently into the room and now took it all in with as blank an expression as she could manage. He didn’t blame her; it smelled like someone had died in there. Chris peeked into the bathroom while he pulled on his own gloves to make sure no one had. At least not recently enough to still be there.

“Start with the dresser,” Chris told Laura. The dust didn’t look disturbed, so it was unlikely that anyone had used it recently, but they couldn’t leave any stone unturned. With that thought Chris turned and looked at the bed.

“What are we looking for?” Laura had pulled out the top drawer and felt around inside even though it appeared to be empty.

“Anything,” Chris said. He picked up the pillows and squeezed them. Unsatisfied, he dumped the pillows out of the cases to make sure no one had ripped out a seam to hide something inside them.

Chris glanced over at Laura as he pulled back the blankets one layer at a time. She’d pulled the first two drawers out of the dresser completely and was checking the bottom of the second. Chris examined the mattress and looked beneath it.

By the time they were done they’d looked behind the faded painting of a table set with daisies and a loaf of bread, beneath the rickety table, and inside the toilet tank and the shower rod. They’d even moved every item that could be moved away from the wall to check behind them. The only things they’d found were a used condom and a dead mouse.

“Should I bag them, Agent?” Laura said with a straight face.

“Yes,” Chris said. “We might be able to get some DNA off the condom.”

Laura kept her composure, but Chris could tell he’d surprised her. He stepped outside to hide his grin. While he was there he looked around at the front of the motel as if the answers would jump out at him. He walked down the length of the motel looking for any evidence that Judy Clement was cleaning any of the rooms. Unsurprisingly, after seeing the state of room 5, he didn’t find any trace of her.

Chris made sure that the door to room 5 was locked when they were done. He left Laura to lock the evidence they’d collected into the trunk and headed back to the office to return the key. 

~*~

Back at the Sheriff Department, John called Chris into his office. “Find anything?” he said when the door was closed.

“No.” Chris dropped into the chair in front of the desk.

“What’s next?”

Chris had considered his next move on the drive back to the station. He could run a check on the owner and employees of the motel, but he doubted that they had anything to do with the dead body in L.A. It was more likely that he’d just stayed there for the night.

“I’ve still got to talk to Judy Clement, the so-called cleaning lady at the motel, but then I’ve got nothing,” Chris admitted.

John nodded. “What about the painting?”

“My partner is following up on that,” Chris said. John didn’t comment, but it wasn’t a silence of agreement. “What?”

“Do you think your John Doe might’ve obtained the painting here?”

John Doe had been in Beacon Hills for some reason. It was possible he’d gained possession of the painting here and taken it to L.A. to unload it. “It’s possible,” Chris allowed. “Why?”

“You’ve been gone a while,” John said, “but Beacon Hills has gained some culture while you were gone. We’ve got an art gallery now. Guy that owns it is pretty knowledgeable. He might know a thing or two about your painting.”

It couldn’t hurt to talk to the guy since he was already there. “Fine,” Chris said. “Where is this gallery?”

“Remember the warehouse down by the waterfront where we used to hang out?”

“Somebody renovated that place?”

“Not just that one,” John said. “There are also apartments down there and a few hipster shops.”

John walked Chris to the door. “Just be careful. He’s a little eccentric.”

~*~

Chris found his way to the waterfront and the gallery with no problem even though he hadn’t been there in . . . forever. He passed a sign for a farmer’s market Saturdays 10-4 before he pulled into the parking lot. Chris angled into a parking spot and swore to himself when he read the name of the gallery. Fucking John.

The sign above the gallery entrance read ‘Hale of an Impression Art Gallery & Boutique’. A smaller sign advertised ‘Blank Canvas’ art studios above the gallery and an art class called ‘Express Yourself’.

Chris waited a minute, but unless he wanted to leave Beacon Hills without following every lead he could, he needed to pull up his big boy briefs and get out of the Tahoe. And see Peter Hale again for the first time since Chris left Beacon Hills all those years ago.

~*~

Chris tried the door handle, which was locked. Surely John wouldn’t have sent him here if the place was closed. Chris knocked on the glass and watched for any movement inside. A door opened down the hall and a man stepped through it. There was no doubt in Chris’s mind that it was Peter Hale. His breath caught in his chest at the sight of the man Peter had become.

Peter looked at Chris only long enough to confirm his identity, then called out something Chris couldn’t hear. A young woman stepped out of a doorway closer to the front door. She placed her back to Chris and stood with her arms crossed over her chest. Chris didn’t need to hear the conversation between Peter and the woman to know that they were talking about him.

The woman turned to face Chris and he almost wished that she hadn’t. If looks could kill her glare would’ve incinerated him on the spot. Worse was the fact that she reminded him of a young Talia Hale, and Chris wondered if she was Peter’s daughter.

The woman unlocked the door and gave Chris a scathing once-over that definitely found him lacking before opening the door wide enough to admit him. She didn’t wait for Chris to enter, merely turned away and disappeared into the room she’d come out of, her contempt clear in every step she took. 

Chris stepped into the gallery and carefully closed the door behind him. He glanced to his right into what was obviously the Boutique. He saw a rack of greeting cards before the woman closed the door in his face. The hours stenciled on the glass indicated that they were open, so that gesture was definitely for Chris’s benefit.

Chris glanced down the hallway, which was empty. Peter had disappeared back into his office, or whatever room he’d come out of. Chris looked around the gallery – he wasn’t above stalling before his confrontation with Peter, but he was also curious about what Peter had done with the place.

The gallery itself was open to the roof of the building where the skylights that had been installed added to the light coming in through three stories of windows. There was a railing on the second floor, behind which Chris thought the studios might be located. He’d kept the interior brick on the walls.

Chris took a deep breath and forced himself to continue down the hallway. The first thing Chris saw when he looked into the office was a large desk, but Peter wasn’t behind it. Chris stepped farther into the room and saw Peter standing before a board which was meant to replicate the moveable walls of the gallery. Pater was moving pieces of paper around and studying the results.

“I often wondered what it would take to bring you back to Beacon Hills,” Peter finally said without looking at Chris.

Chris loosened his grip on the file folder; it wouldn’t do to crumple it up. “John told you I was coming.”

“Of course!” Peter said, showing the first hint of emotion. Peter took a breath and finished calmly. “He wouldn’t surprise me like that.”

Because it wouldn’t have been a good surprise. Chris had been the one to leave, to cut out anyone and everything that reminded him of Beacon Hills, so it was ridiculous that Peter’s words stung.

Instead of addressing the elephant in the room, Chris said, “The young woman who let me in, is she your daughter?”

Peter’s eyebrows went up. “Cora?” He laughed. “No.”

Chris didn’t know what to say to that – he didn’t have any right to ask, and Peter was obviously not going to tell.

Peter gestured towards the folder in Chris’s hand as he moved over to the desk. “You wanted my help?”

Chris opened his mouth to explain that he hadn’t known he was going to be meeting with Peter, but thought that might actually make things worse. Instead Chris said, “John said you’re the local art expert.”

“It’s Beacon Hills; there’s a low bar.” Peter sat behind the desk and gestured towards a chair in front of it.

Chris stepped closer to the desk. “First, can you tell me if you recognize this man?”

Peter took the photo from Chris. “He’s dead.”

“Very.”

“I don’t recognize him.”

Chris didn’t take the photo back. “He was never here?”

“I didn’t say that,” Peter said. “I said I don’t recognize him.”

“There’s a difference?”

“The difference is that he could very well have visited the gallery, but if he did, I didn’t see him, or he didn’t make enough of an impression to be memorable.”

Chris took the photo, wondering why he was trying to antagonize Peter. The answer was simple – Peter was so unflappable and he wanted to get under Peter’s skin the same way Peter had always managed to get under his.

Chris withdrew the other photo. “This is the painting we found on the body.”

Chris saw the change that came over Peter the moment he looked at the photo. There was shock, and an urgency when he moved the photo closer to his face. Peter picked up a magnifying glass and looked at the bottom right hand corner of the photo.

“Do you have a close-up of the lower right hand corner of the painting?” Peter asked, imperative.

“No, but I can get one.”

While Chris called Rafe to get the photo Peter took out his cell phone and made a call of his own. Peter gave the screen a frustrated stab and set the phone down carefully, as if he wanted to crush it.

Chris was relieved when his phone beeped with the e-mail notification. He opened the attached photograph and showed it to Peter. Peter studied the photo, then enlarged it and stared some more.

“Peter,” Chris said.

“I know the woman who painted this. I don’t recognize this particular painting, but I recognize her style and her signature.”

“Who is she?”

“Gina Carlton.”

Chris was writing down the name when Peter stood and hurried from the room. Chris finished his notation and followed. When he caught up to Peter, he was standing outside one of the studios on the second floor.

Peter was waiting, but not patiently. Finally a voice from within the studio said, “Okay, you can come in now.”

“Thank you, Margo. Have you seen or heard from Gina recently?”

“No,” Margo said. “Not since Tuesday. She called to cancel on our usual girls’ night out.”

“Thank you.” Peter closed the door and moved swiftly down the corridor.

“I haven’t seen her in a few days,” a voice said before Peter had to ask. “She stiff you on the rent?”

“No, nothing like that,” Peter said. “Thank you, Paul.”

Peter moved past Chris, back towards the stairway, without speaking. Chris followed. He touched Peter’s arm and Peter jerked it away. Back in his office Peter started making phone calls. As far as Chris could tell, Peter called anyone who might know where Gina was, including the other artists, employees of the gallery, and Gina’s sister.

Peter’s last call was to Cora. A moment later she appeared in the doorway. “Why are you asking about Gina?”

“She hasn’t been in for a few days . . . ,” Peter began.

“You’re a sucky liar, Uncle Peter,” Cora said. “Plus, the FBI is here.”

Peter glanced at Chris, then away.

“This needs to stay in this room until I get a chance to speak to Gina Carlton.” Chris waited until Cora nodded her agreement. “We’re trying to ID a John Doe. He had this painting on him when he was found.”

Chris showed Cora the photo and she sucked in a breath. “Oh my god, is Gina alright?”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Peter said, but he didn’t sound very convincing.

“I’m going to her house . . .”

“No,” Chris said. Both Peter and Cora looked at him. “She could be hurt.” Chris didn’t say, or worse, but they were all thinking it. “I need to call the Sheriff’s Department.”

Chris got Gina Carlton’s address from Peter and stepped away from the desk to make the call. After Chris explained the situation as succinctly as he could, John agreed to send a deputy out to do a wellness check. Chris told John that he’d meet the deputy there.

Peter and Cora were staring at Chris when he ended the call. Chris picked up the file. “I’ll call you when I find out anything more.”

Chris tried not to think about the last time he’d left Peter with that same expression of shocked confusion on his face. At least this time there was no hurt or anger accompanying it. Not yet, anyway.

~*~

Two BCSD cruisers were parked at the curb outside Gina Carlton’s apartment when Chris arrived. Chris’s heart sank into his belly because that didn’t bode well. He didn’t want to have to give Peter bad news again.

Laura stepped out of the apartment as Chris walked up the sidewalk. She held up a finger, silently asking Chris to wait while she finished up her conversation. “He’s here now, sir,” Laura said. “I will.”

Laura ended the call. “Gina Carlton is not inside the apartment and there’s no sign of a struggle. But there is something you should see.”

Chris was relieved that they hadn’t found Gina Carlton’s body, but he knew that there was still a chance she might be dead. He followed Laura into the apartment to see what they’d uncovered.

The living room was a mess; packing material thrown around like wrapping paper. The ‘gift’ was one of Gina’s paintings. It was framed, but the frame was broken. White powder dusted the top of the coffee table.

“We tested it. Parrish.”

Deputy J. Parrish produced a plastic evidence bag. Inside was an ampoule filled with blue liquid.

“Cocaine,” Chris said. He looked more closely at the box, which contained at least one more framed painting and was deep enough for about half a dozen, even well-padded.

Chris sighed. Their case had just gotten a lot more complicated. He called Rafe to tell him to check the painting for cocaine residue.

“Are we waiting for your CSI unit?” Chris said when he’d ended the call.

Laura gave Chris a look. “This is Beacon Hills, not L.A. Parrish _is_ our CSI unit.”

Chris nodded. He’d worked with enough small law enforcement departments to know that, but he was so used to calling on the resources of the FBI that he sometimes forgot not everyone was that lucky.

“I’m gonna take a look around.” Chris took a pair of gloves from the box Parrish offered.

“Don’t move anything until Parrish gets a photo of it,” Laura said, snapping on her own pair of gloves.

Chris almost reminded Laura that he’d been doing this since before she was born, but it wasn’t quite true, and besides, it made him feel old.

Since they were working the living room, Chris went to the bedroom. He checked the dresser, night stand, bed and closet, but didn’t find anything out of place or of a suspicious nature. Chris moved on to the bathroom, then the kitchen.

John showed up while Chris was going through the freezer. “Find anything?”

“Not a damned thing,” Chris said. He closed the freezer door harder than necessary.

“Wanna go question Gina’s sister with me?”

“Yes!” Chris said with more eagerness than the question warranted.

On the way to the door Chris stopped beside Laura. “Would you call Peter and tell him we didn’t find Gina? He’s worried we might have found her hurt. Or worse.”

Laura raised an eyebrow. “And you can’t call him, why?”

“Because she’s still missing, and that’s the kind of news he’d probably rather receive from someone he loves and trusts.”

Chris waited until Laura gave a grudging nod to follow John to the BCSD cruiser.

~*~

Cheryl Hudson hadn’t seen or heard from her sister in several days. She wasn’t able to give them the names of Gina’s friends (she kept to herself) or know where she might’ve gone if she needed to hide out, but she did give them a lead they hadn’t had before – someone had offered Gina a commission for a large number of paintings if she could get them done quickly. For a motel chain renovation, or something, she wasn’t clear on the details.

“We need to find this person,” Chris said when they were on the sidewalk.

“You think they’re important?”

Chris slid into the front passenger seat and waited for John to get in behind the wheel before he spoke. “Since they’re shipping paintings with cocaine frames, I’m going to take a leap and guess they’re connected, somehow.”

“I agree,” John said. “I’ll drop you off at your car and meet you back at the station after you talk to Peter about it.”

Why do I have to talk to Peter? was Chris’s first thought. Luckily he didn’t say it out loud; he was pretty sure John wouldn’t have any sympathy for him.

“Sounds good,” Chris said, and ignored the huff from the other side of the car.

John dropped Chris off at his Tahoe and left him there with a wave. Chris walked up the sidewalk to the apartment. A BCSD cruiser was still at the curb, so it was only proper that he check to see if Parrish had found anything else.

Even after going through Gina Carlton’s storage locker in the basement, Parrish hadn’t discovered anything incriminating or suspicious (other than the cocaine they’d already taken into evidence). He had found a laptop and an address book, both of which Laura had taken to the station to get started on.

With no other excuse to stall, Chris said his farewells to Parrish and headed over to the gallery. He checked his watch; maybe the gallery would be closed by the time he arrived. Chris pulled over when his phone rang and he saw Rafe’s name on the screen.

Rafe reported that there had been cocaine residue on the painting. “What the hell have you gotten into up there?”

Chris filled Rafe in on everything he’d done and discovered since he arrived in Beacon Hills that afternoon.

“Who’s the art expert?” Rafe said. “Anyone I know?”

“Peter Hale,” Chris said. He waited while Rafe recovered from choking on the other end of the line.

“How’s that going?” Rafe said, still sounding a little choked up.

“Could be worse.”

“I can imagine,” Rafe said.

“I’ll bet.” Rafe hadn’t left many friends behind when he left Beacon Hills in his review mirror, either.

Chris promised to keep Rafe informed and continued on to the gallery. There was a handwritten sign on the front door informing the public that the gallery was closed and apologizing for the inconvenience. Cora appeared to let Chris in before he knocked.

“Uncle Peter’s in his office.”

Chris nodded as he stepped past Cora.

“Did you find anything?”

Chris gestured for Cora to follow him. “I’m only gonna do this once.”

Cora huffed, but made sure the door was secured and trailed after Chris.

Chris paused at the entry to Peter’s office and knocked on the doorframe even though Peter had most likely heard Cora admit him. Peter made an impatient gesture and Chris entered, Cora right behind him.

Peter stood. “Well? Did you find Gina?”

Chris was caught flat-footed at the question. “Didn’t Laura call you?”

“Yes.” Peter pinned Chris with a look that told Chris what Peter thought of him passing off the duty. “I meant since then; you talked to her sister, didn’t you?”

“How did you . . . ? Did Laura tell you that?”

Peter waved away Chris’s concern. “I didn’t need Laura to tell me that you would need to talk to Gina’s sister. I might not be an FBI agent, but I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you were,” Chris said, trying to remain calm because he knew that Peter was worried about the missing woman. “John and I did speak to Gina’s sister, but we haven’t found Gina yet.”

Chris gestured for Cora to sit, then took the other chair in front of Peter’s desk. Chris waited a moment and Peter finally sat with a huff.

Chris took out his notebook. “Did Gina talk to you about the commission she received?”

“God, yes!” Cora said.

Peter slid a glance her way, but added, “Gina was very excited about that. Beacon Hills isn’t a Mecca for artists, unfortunately, and she could use the money.”

“Was she in financial trouble?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Peter said.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “Then what did she need the money for?”

“Living sale-to-sale doesn’t equate to ‘financial trouble’, but it doesn’t offer a lot of stability, either.”

“Did she ever mention the name of the person who approached her, or the name of the motel chain the paintings were for?”

Both Peter and Cora indicated in the negative.

“Was Gina ever involved in drugs?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter said.

“Did Gina ever take or sell drugs?”

“No, absolutely not!”

Cora remained suspiciously silent regarding Gina’s integrity, but said, “Why are you asking?”

Chris took a deep breath. “I’m telling you this because I need your help, but it stays here in this room, understand?”

Peter and Cora both agreed.

“I believe, based on the small amount of evidence we found, that the person who contacted Gina with the commission was using her paintings to hide shipments of drugs.”

“What . . . ?”

“Oh my god.” Cora went pale, but didn’t say anything else.

“Can you think of anything else that might help?”

Peter shook his head, then found his voice. “No.”

Cora stared at the carpet.

Chris looked back to Peter. “I’m going to need to search Gina’s studio space,” he said as gently as he could.

“Do you have a warrant?” Peter said without much acid.

“No. Are you going to make me wait to get one?”

Peter shook his head. He started to rise, but Cora said, “I’ll show him where it is, Uncle Peter.”

Chris didn’t comment on Cora’s unusual offer to assist him, given her original reaction to his appearance. He followed Cora up the staircase to the second level, which was eerily silent.

“Everyone’s gone home,” Cora said, sensing Chris’s unease. She indicated the skylights. “They prefer to work with natural light. Except Jo.” Cora gestured towards a closed door. “She wasn’t here earlier. She makes pottery and prefers to work at night when no one else is around.”

“What time will she be here?” Chris said as Cora used a master key to gain access to Gina Carlton’s studio.

“I’ll call her.”

Chris nodded his thanks and stepped into the studio. There was enough light coming in the large windows and the skylights that Chris could look around the studio to get a feel for the place without turning on any additional lights.

“Want more light?” Cora said as Chris snapped on a pair of gloves.

“Yes, thank you.”

Cora flipped a switch and sconces on the wall lit up. “What are you looking for?”

There were paintings leaning against the wall and sketches pinned to a cork board, but Chris began with the two-drawer file cabinet. “A contract, or even a slip of paper with the name of the person who commissioned the paintings, a letter from an attorney that said Gina inherited a cabin in the woods . . .” Not that Chris thought he’d find either of those things. “Anything that might lead me to Gina, or lead me to something _else_ that’ll lead me to Gina.”

Chris finished going through the top drawer, which contained the lease agreement for the studio space, an insurance policy and paid receipts, and invoices for sold paintings. The bottom drawer contained receipts for paint and canvas, bank statements, tax filings, and, eureka!, a folder filled with contracts.

Chris withdrew the folder and went through the agreements. They were filed by date, so Chris went back to the beginning of the year. There were only half a dozen – Gina must’ve sold most of her work through the gallery – and none of them were for more than three (a local café that did a remodel recently).

“Do you recall when Gina started talking about the large commission?”

Cora shrugged. “A couple months ago?”

Chris would need to go through the rest of the file, but he couldn’t see why Gina would’ve filed the contract out of order. So either there hadn’t been a contract (no one in their right mind would’ve agreed to produce a large quantity of paintings without a contract unless there’d been a large enough down payment to make it worth the risk), or someone had removed it from the file.

“Have you seen anyone hanging around?”

“No. But I only work here after school during the week. And Uncle Peter has really good security here because of the art.”

Chris removed both file drawers. He reached in and felt around the top and sides. “Check the bottoms for me?”

Cora nodded her agreement so Chris lifted one, then the other, so Cora could look beneath them. “Nothing,” she said.

Chris grunted. He removed the folder containing the bank statements and replaced the drawers. Chris let out a sound of dissatisfaction when the statements didn’t reveal a large deposit.

Chris returned the folder and looked around the studio, trying to decide where to look next. For no reason he could think of, Chris went over to the paintings stood on the floor. He went through each stack until he found one that had a piece of paper taped to the back.

Chris gave Cora his phone and had her take a couple pictures of it before he carefully removed it.

“What is it?” Cora said as Chris unfolded it.

There was a name and phone number on the paper. When Chris told it to Cora, she closed her eyes and swore under her breath.

“This have anything to do with what you want to tell me?” Chris said.

Cora’s eyes shot open.

“I might be a jerk, or worse,” Chris amended at Cora’s look, “but I am good at my job.” He gave that a moment to sink in. “Who’s Daryl Mason?”

“Gina’s ex. They started dating in high school. He got heavily into drugs and Gina broke up with him after the second time he stole from her to buy drugs. I was hoping he hadn’t gotten her into this.”

“You thought of him right away when I mentioned drugs.”

“Daryl’s the kind of person who would use other people to pay his debts. If he mentioned Gina to his dealer . . .”

“Do you know where he lives?”

Cora shook her head. “I think his parents eventually kicked him out, too.”

“Okay. Thank you, Cora. You’ve been a big help. You don’t need to stay any longer.”

“I should’ve noticed she was missing.”

Chris didn’t have an answer for that, but Cora left before he had to find one. Chris finished with the studio, going through the sketches on the wall and the pads on the drafting table, looking beneath and behind the few pieces of furniture, but found nothing else.

Chris stared at the paper he’d found. Why would Gina have Daryl’s name and number? If he’d contacted her about the paintings, surely she’d have suspected something. Still, it was the only clue he’d found, and given the drug connection it had to mean something.

Chris leaned against the window frame and called John. “Am I interrupting dinner?” he said when John answered.

John snorted. “Stiles dropped off a salad for me since I told him I’d be working late, like I’m some damned rabbit. What have you got?”

“A name.” Chris told John about Gina’s connection to Daryl Mason and John agreed to have him picked up for questioning.

“Do you have a K-9?”

After a slight hesitation, John said, “In a manner of speaking.”

“You use Laura for that sort of thing?”

“When necessary,” John said. “What do you need?”

“When she and Deputy Parrish were at Gina’s house, did she happen to, uh, sniff out any other sources of cocaine?”

“You think Gina has cocaine hidden in her home?”

“No. I think she was paid in cash and there might be traces of cocaine on the bills.”

“Huh,” John said. “I’ll send Laura out.”

“Have her check Gina’s studio, too,” Chris said.

“Will do. What’s your next step?”

“I’ve got to write a report and check in with my partner.”

“Alright, let me know if I can do anything.” John disconnected before Chris could decide whether to take him up on it.

Chris returned the phone to his pocket and stared out at the water for a few moments before turning to leave. His heart stuttered when he saw Peter leaning against the doorframe.

“You found something?”

“Are you saying you didn’t listen to every word?”

“That would be rude,” Peter said, but it wasn’t a denial.

“What do you know about Daryl Mason?”

“Nothing. I didn’t even know the boy existed until now.”

“And now that you do, you’re going to let the Sheriff Department pick him up so I can question him, right?”

Peter studied his blunt finger nails. “I could probably get answers out of him more quickly.”

“I know that Gina is important to you,” Chris said. “I want to find her, too. But I also have a murder to solve, so I need Daryl Mason alive.”

Peter was silent, and Chris waited on tenterhooks, expecting him to berate Chris for caring more about the dead than the living.

“We’ll try it your way,” Peter said, then pushed off the doorframe and walked away, leaving the ‘first’ implied.

Chris didn’t want to know what Peter would do if they didn’t get some answers from Mason.

~*~

Chris startled at the knock on his hotel door. He checked the peephole before opening it. “How did you find me?”

John gave Chris an unimpressed look. “I’m the sheriff. Besides, there aren’t a lot of options in Beacon Hills unless you enjoyed the ambiance at the Beacon Motor Inn.”

“I didn’t,” Chris said, standing back to let John enter. “Do you have news?” Chris said as he closed the door.

John raised the six pack he carried. “And beer.” He tilted his head towards the desk and table where Chris had spread out his laptop and notes. “What are you doing?”

“I had to file some reports. The FBI likes to know we’re earning our extravagant pay,” he added dryly. “I also asked Rafe to get a warrant to trace Gina’s cell phone. If she has it turned on we might be able to find her general location.”

“Rafe?” John said. “McCall?”

“Yeah. We were partnered up. The irony’s killing us, too.”

“Why didn’t he come back?” John said with a hint of amusement. No one took Melissa McCall’s ire lightly.

“Because I chose rock and he went with paper.”

John laughed. “Was it really so bad here?” he said seriously.

“You know why I had to leave,” Chris said.

John nodded. “Gerard’s been gone for years.”

“Yeah, well, by then I’d burned all my bridges, so . . .” Chris gestured towards the six pack. “That just for show or are we actually going to drink it?”

John handed Chris a bottle and took one for himself. He set the carton in a clear space on the table and they sat. He waited until they’d both taken a sip to get down to business. “Laura checked Gina Carlton’s apartment and studio.”

“She find anything?”

John tapped at his phone before handing it to Chris. “There was a hidey hole under the kitchen sink, behind all the cleaning supplies.”

Chris scrolled through the photos of the space under the sink – undisturbed, with all the cleaning supplies removed, then with the board removed to expose a metal box. Then photos of the metal box sitting on the counter, closed, and finally open to show the contents.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Not only that,” John said.

Chris swiped to the next photo. “The contract.”

“Gina Carlton was not stupid,” John said with a hint of admiration. “She knew that she was dealing with someone unsavory.”

“Then why did she accept the commission in the first place?”

“I have a theory about that,” John said. “And it begins with ‘an offer you can’t refuse’.”

“That was a horrible impression, but you could be right.”

“Laura went back to the station to run a search on the name in the contract, George Lazenby. My guess is it’s fake, but we’re also running the fingerprints Parrish took off it, so we might get something there.”

“That’s good news.” Chris returned the phone and angled his bottle towards John. He waited for the clink before taking another sip.

John indicated the open file. “What were you working on?”

“Just trying to put it all together. If this is about drugs instead of art . . . Why Beacon Hills? It’s not exactly a hot bed of illegal activity here.”

“Maybe that’s why. Or maybe it’s just serendipity. Daryl Mason mentioned Gina to his dealer, who passed the name to his boss, and so on. Gina’s a nobody from nowhere, who’d suspect that her art was being used to smuggle drugs?”

They drank in silence for a few minutes.

“What?” John said. “You thought your case was going to be more high brow?” He said the last two words mockingly.

Chris snorted. “He had a key to room 5 at the Beacon Motor Inn. There’s nothing high brow about that.”

John left after one beer since he had to drive home. Chris opened a second and put the rest in the mini-fridge. He looked at the folder and deliberately turned his back on it. He needed to gain some distance in order to see things more clearly.

Chris sat on the bed and turned the television on low. Mostly for background noise; he wasn’t really in the mood to watch anything. Chris took out his phone to text Allison. His daughter had been raised by Victoria with little input from Chris and only the occasional visit, so Chris didn’t want to bother Allison too often, but something about being back in Beacon Hills made him want to touch base with her.

~*~

When Chris arrived at the station the next morning there was a bustle of activity. John saw Chris and waved him into the office.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re sending a team out to search the Preserve, just in case Gina Carlton is hiding somewhere out there.”

“Did you get a lead?”

“No. But that’s just it. We can’t wait for a lead. The nights are getting colder. At the very least she’s scared, but she might also be hurt . . .”

John left the ‘or worse’ unspoken.

From the outer room someone said, “The last of your posse is here!”

John rolled his eyes.

When Chris looked out into the bullpen he was startled to see a young man with an upturned nose and moles scattered across his face. “Jesus,” Chris breathed.

“I know,” John said fondly as he watched the young man who looked uncannily like Claudia.

When Chris could pull his gaze away from John’s son, he took in the dark-haired man standing behind the boy.

“Don’t call it that, Stiles,” the man said.

Stiles grinned and winked. “Don’t be such a sourwolf, Derek.”

Derek Hale. Chris swallowed hard. Derek had been just a baby when he left Beacon Hills, and now he was an adult. And apparently hanging out with John’s son.

“I’d like to go, too,” Chris said.

John gave Chris a long look that would’ve made Chris squirm if he hadn’t been an FBI agent for over fifteen years. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Right now it’s just a waiting game. I’d like something to _do_.”

John gave a sharp nod. “Alright. Laura’s in charge.”

Chris nodded his understanding. John led him over to where Derek and Stiles were now standing with Laura and Parrish, going over a map of the Preserve.

“Argent’s going with you, too,” John announced.

Laura’s expression didn’t give anything away. “Great,” she said. “We’ll have even teams now.”

By Chris’s count five people didn’t lend themselves to even teams. He gave John a questioning look just as three people emerged from the break room. Peter and Cora were accompanied by Talia Hale. Chris hadn’t seen her in years, but she’d barely changed. Except the Talia he remembered hadn’t carried herself with such a regal air. Was it age and experience or becoming the alpha that had done that, Chris wondered.

John reached out to shake Talia’s hand. “Talia, thank you for lending a hand.”

“Of course,” Talia said in a smooth, husky voice. “Peter and Cora both have a soft spot for Gina, and none of us like the idea that someone is running drugs through Beacon Hills.”

The corner of John’s eye twitched, the only indication that whoever had told Talia about the drugs, it hadn’t been John.

“I’ll leave you to it,” John said to Laura. “Good luck.”

Chris was surprised that John wasn’t going, but with two deputies going out someone needed to remain behind to hold down the fort. John gave Chris a look before heading back to his office, one that offered him an out if he wanted one, now that he knew that the Hales, including Peter, made up the largest portion of the search party.

Five werewolves, one hellhound and two humans. Chris saw Stiles studying him. He frowned as if he was trying to figure out something. Chris revised his count; maybe Stiles wasn’t one hundred percent human after all. 

Laura divided them up into teams of two and explained the search grid before they left. “I’ll go with Argent,” she said. Laura didn’t sound thrilled at the prospect, but she apparently wanted to keep Chris away from the rest of her family, and maybe wanted to keep an eye on him, as well.

“Let me,” Talia said. “We have so much to catch up on.” She gave Chris a smile that would’ve sent a shudder through a lesser man.

As it was, Chris had to force a smile of his own. “It would be my pleasure.”

Talia raised her eyebrows and Chris couldn’t tell if it was because she sensed the lie or because she couldn’t.

“Talia . . .”

“Mom . . .”

Talia touched Peter’s arm with a tenderness that was new and looked at Laura. “I’m sure, dear.”

The other teams were Parrish and Stiles, Peter and Derek, and Laura and Cora. Stiles naturally complained that he wasn’t being partnered with Derek.

“We’re out here to search for a missing woman,” Laura said without any heat, “not flirt.”

Chris wasn’t sure whether Stiles or Derek flushed the deeper read. Stiles stammered out, “I’m not flirting.”

“Not well, anyway,” Peter teased.

Stiles recovered enough to say, “I hate you all.”

With the hint of a smile, Laura said, “Let’s head out.”

John was standing in the doorway to his office. Stiles stopped to give him a hug. John ruffled Stiles’s hair. “Stay safe, kiddo.”

John took in the rest of them. “That goes for all of you. Be careful out there.”

Peter rolled his eyes when Talia climbed into Chris’s Tahoe, but didn’t attempt to rescue Chris from his fate. He deserved it, probably.

Talia was silent while Chris backed out of the parking space and followed the line of cars, led by Laura and Parrish in the cruiser, out of the parking lot. She waited until they were on the road to speak. Chris had been dreading this conversation, but it was almost a relief when she finally spoke.

“I was surprised to hear that you were back in town.” Talia’s tone was mild, but Chris recalled that was when you had to be most careful.

“It was unavoidable,” Chris said, trying to keep his own tone even. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible.”

“Hmm.”

“Look, you know why I had to leave,” Chris said.

“You leaving didn’t change anything,” Talia said. “Your family still tried to burn my family alive.”

“I didn’t know he’d do that.” Chris hadn’t trusted his father, exactly, but he’d thought that his own pain would be enough to satisfy the other man.

“Gerard is dead and Kate is in jail,” Talia said. “The Calaveras dissolved the Argent hunters, absorbing some into other groups and expelling others. There wasn’t anything to keep you away after that.”

“It was too late then,” Chris said. “I’d burned too many bridges.”

“I never knew you to be a coward,” Talia said.

Chris didn’t have a ready answer to that. It wouldn’t matter if he had. Talia’d timed her comment just right, and she slid out of the Tahoe before Chris could come to a complete stop behind Claudia’s – Stiles’s now, apparently – blue Jeep.

~*~

They spent the entire day in the Preserve. They stopped for a lunch of sandwiches and coffee delivered by John so he could get an update, then kept going past supper. Chris was in good shape, but his legs were feeling it by the time Laura called an end to their search.

Talia hadn’t exactly given Chris the third degree, but she’d occasionally asked questions about his life over the past twenty plus years. Chris had a feeling he’d told her more than he meant to, which put his FBI training to shame.

She’d also shared bits of her own life: Laura had decided to go into law enforcement after the fire. Peter loved the history of art, but Derek was the artist in the family. He was currently in his fifth year working towards a Bachelor of Architecture Degree. Cora was still in high school and, while she had little interest in art, she had an interest in money, so she worked part-time at Peter’s Art Boutique. James had opened his dream restaurant and Talia had given up working for the Public Defender’s Office to become Mayor.

Talia didn’t mention her mother and Chris didn’t ask, afraid to hear that she’d passed, and maybe reopen an old wound. Other than that one brief mention of him, Talia stayed away from talking about Peter.

When they made it back to where they’d left the cars, Talia slipped into the Lincoln Navigator with Peter and Cora. Chris sat alone in the Tahoe and watched the other three vehicles drive away. He couldn’t be upset at being left behind when he’d first made the choice to leave everything, and everyone, in Beacon Hills behind.

Chris plugged his phone into the car charger because the battery had gone dangerously low while he’d been in the Preserve. He called John to see if there had been any luck finding Daryl Mason or the person who’d signed the contract.

According to John, Daryl Mason was in hiding. Probably for the same reason Gina Carlton was. And as they’d suspected, the name on the contract was a fake. Additionally, the fingerprints they’d taken from it weren’t in the system.

Chris called Rafe after he ended the call with John. He was trying to find a judge to sign the warrant for the phone records, but they were as difficult to spot on the weekend as the dodo bird. Chris sat in the Tahoe after Rafe hung up. He hadn’t planned on being in Beacon Hills for longer than a day or two, but you know what they said about best-laid plans.

Chris returned to the hotel. He showered and changed into his last pair of clean jeans. He ordered a pizza and ate it in the laundry room while he went over his notes. Chris was considering whether he should get out of the room, out of his head for a while, or just stay in and drink one of the beers John had brought before going to bed.

He was just toeing off his boots when his cell phone rang. Rafe had found a judge willing to sign the warrant. Unfortunately, the phone was either turned off or the battery had died.

Chris ran a hand through his hair. He got a beer out of the mini-fridge. At least here he couldn’t do anything stupid. Chris was glad he had half the beer under his belt when his cell rang again. He closed his eyes and wished for a moment that he could let the call go to voice mail.

This wasn’t the hardest case Chris had ever worked, nor the most important, but being back in Beacon Hills had him off-balance. He answered the call with a curt, “Argent,” then broke into a smile when the person on the other end said, “Hey, dad.”

“Allison,” Chris said, relieved and pleased to hear from her. “Is something wrong?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because we just spoke yesterday.”

“Yes, and you sounded . . . off. I wanted to make sure _you_ were okay.”

“I am, just this case . . . Thank you, Alli-bug.”

“What are you doing?”

“Right now? Laying on a hard hotel bed with a bottle of beer, wishing this case was over.”

“Poor baby.”

Chris laughed for the first time all day.

“So, dad, I was thinking .”

Chris perked up at the tension in Allison’s voice. “What’s up?”

“Maybe you can come visit me after you close your case.”

It took Chris a moment to find his voice. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“I’d love that.”

They talked for a few minutes more and Chris was still smiling when he ended the call. He picked up the phone when it rang again in a better frame of mind. “Argent.”

“We found Daryl Mason,” John said without preamble. “You won’t be able to question him, though. He’s dead.”

“How?”

“Shot in the back of the head.”

Chris closed his eyes. “Shit.”

“We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

Chris finished the beer and shoved his feet back into his boots. He didn’t know where he was going to go, or what he was going to do, but he needed to get out of the confining hotel room. His case had rested on being able to question Daryl Mason about the drugs, but even worse, Mason being dead didn’t bode well for Gina Carlton.

Chris stared at the lights in the elevator, watching them count down from three to one. He lowered his gaze and took a step forward only to be brought up short when he saw Peter across the lobby. Peter’s head came up and he looked directly at Chris.

Chris didn’t have time to wonder what Peter was doing there. Something that looked a lot like determination sat briefly on Peter’s face before it was gone and Peter was crossing the lobby to the elevators.

Chris was blocking the elevator doors (which had tried to close twice while he stood there), so he was forced to step back to allow Peter inside. The doors seemed relieved to be able to finally close. The silence in the car grew until Peter finally broke it.

“I don’t know your floor number.”

Prompted, Chris reached out and pressed the correct button. Silence returned. Chris still didn’t know what was going on when the doors opened on the third floor. He stepped out of the elevator and Peter followed.

The back of Chris’s neck tingled and he braced for the sensation of claws cutting through skin and muscle. It never came. He slid the keycard into the slot and let them into his room. Chris crossed to the desk and set the keycard on the files he’d left there.

Chris didn’t have any other reason to not turn around, so he did. Peter had removed his coat. Chris’s mouth went dry at the sight of Peter in leg-hugging jeans and a burgundy v-neck sweater.

“Peter . . .”

“Don’t talk,” Peter said. He tossed the coat over the arm of the couch. “Because when you speak I’m reminded of how much I want to gut you on my claws.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.

Peter gave Chris an impressed look as he sauntered over to him. Peter placed his hands on either side of Chris’s face and leaned in slowly – telegraphing his intention, Chris realized – and kissed him. Chris was frozen for a moment, his brain taking some time to catch up to the fact that this was really happening.

Movement came back in a rush. Chris wrapped his arms around Peter and returned the kiss. He only broke the kiss when Peter shoved at his leather jacket. Peter’s eyes were pinpricks of color and his lips red and wet from the kiss.

Before Chris could speak, to question whether this was a good idea, Peter pressed his fingers to Chris’s lips. “The only words I want to hear from you right now are ‘more’ and ‘harder’.

There was no way Peter didn’t sense Chris’s reaction to that, but there was no hint of gloating on his face.

Chris nodded his understanding and said, “More.”

~*~

Chris wasn’t surprised when he woke up alone the next morning, but he was disconcerted that Peter had managed to leave the bed, much less the room, without waking him. They’d fallen asleep tangled together after Peter had taken Chris apart; Chris hadn’t slept that easily or deeply since . . . Well, in a very long time.

Chris got out of bed, ignoring the blankets pulled back on the other side and the still-damp washcloth folded neatly on the counter beside the sink. Once he’d showered and dressed, Chris gathered up his files and laptop and headed to the station, stopping only for coffee and a couple breakfast sandwiches on the way.

John was on the phone when Chris entered the office. Chris hesitated, but John motioned him to come in. Chris went over to a table that was covered with files. He carefully stacked them to clear a space, then spread out a napkin to serve as a place mat. When John ended the call and came over, Chris’s mouth was full so he gestured towards the second sandwich with his free hand.

“Do I smell bacon?” John said as he unwrapped the sandwich. He took a bite before Chris could reply. “Oh my god, I love you!” John took a second bite. “Stiles can never find out about this.”

“I’m certainly not going to tell him.”

They ate their sandwiches in silence. John wiped his fingers and mouth when he finished, and shoved the napkin and wrapper back into the bag. “You take this with you when you go or Stiles will sniff it out.”

Chris smiled and agreed.

“That was the coroner on the phone. Cause of death was, unsurprisingly, a gun shot to the back of the head.”

“Ballistics?”

“Still waiting.” John shifted in the chair. “There was an attempted break-in at the art gallery.

Chris sat up straight. “Peter’s art gallery?”

John nodded. “Two o’clock this morning. No one got in; Peter has an excellent security system.”

“Looking for something in Gina Carlton’s studio we might have missed?”

“That’s what I was thinking,” John agreed.

“Security cameras?”

“Yes. Peter’s bringing in the recording.”

“Do you think they’ll try anything during the day?” Chris wondered aloud.

“They’ll get a surprise if they do,” John said, which made Chris chuckle and relax a little bit. Peter was a werewolf, he could take care of himself.

“This could be the break we need,” Chris said.

“If they didn’t wear masks.”

“What about fingerprints, footprints . . .”

“I sent Parrish and Hale over to process the scene. If there’s anything there to find, they’ll find it.”

Before Chris could reply there was a knock on the door and Peter stepped into the office. Heat crawled up Chris’s throat at the sight of the other man. Chris silently berated himself for acting like a teenager, but couldn’t help wondering whether Peter might’ve stayed the night if not for the attempted break-in.

“You have the recording?”

John’s voice brought Chris back to the matter at hand.

Peter’s reply was a clipped, “Yes.”

Peter handed over the thumb drive and John plugged it into his computer. The three of them stood behind the desk and watched the recording, which had been queued up to the arrival of the intruders. There were two people, both wearing dark clothing, including masks and gloves. There wouldn’t be any fingerprints, but perhaps one of the two had a distinctive walk that could identify them.

“Wait,” Chris said as his mind caught up to what he was seeing. “Go back.”

John rewound the recording and Chris paid closer attention. “Stop! Right there.” He pointed at the screen where John had paused the playback.

“Do you see it?” Chris said to Peter.

“Yes. But I was hoping I was wrong.”

Chris went hot, then cold. Dread, the kind he hadn’t felt since he left Beacon Hills, washed over him. “It can’t be.”

“It’s a tattoo,” John said. “And I’m getting the feeling you two recognize it.”

Chris stared at the image frozen on the screen – a familiar tattoo on the inside of a wrist. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

“Who is?”

“Gerard Argent,” Peter said, spitting the name.

“My father.” Chris’s voice was faint.

“Sit down before you fall down.”

“I’m fine,” Chris said, but he clutched Peter’s hand while Peter led him over to a chair. Chris thought he might throw up. He’d been living the past few years without the need to look over his shoulder, but it turned out that Gerard had been alive the entire time.

“How?” Chris said. “How is he still alive?”

“More importantly,” John said, “if that is Gerard Argent, why did he show up now?”

“He wanted us to know it was him,” Chris said. “He knows I’m here.”

Peter thrust a water bottle from the vending machine in the break room into Chris’s hand. Chris unscrewed the cap and took a sip, then another. He managed the screw the cap back on without dropping it. “Thank you,” he said to Peter. “Sorry about the freak out.”

“Don’t apologize for that,” Peter said. “I freaked out a little bit myself.”

Before things could get too soppy, the door opened again and Talia Hale breezed in. John gave Peter a look.

“She’s the alpha,” Peter said, unapologetic. “I had to let her know about a threat to the pack.”

“Hello, Sheriff Stilinski, Peter.” Talia looked at Chris. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Because he has!” Peter snapped. “We all have.”

Talia raised an eyebrow, but didn’t call Peter on his insubordination. “What do we have?”

John gestured for Talia to look at the recording. She walked around the desk, glanced at the frozen image, and sighed. “Are we sure it’s him? Could someone else have the same tattoo?”

“It wasn’t a . . . family thing,” Chris said. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?” John demanded.

“Kate was blinded by our father’s . . . zeal.”

“Does she have a matching tattoo?”

“She didn’t before, but she might have gotten one done as a . . . tribute.”

“But Kate’s in prison,” Peter said.

“Are we sure?” Chris insisted.

“We’re supposed to get notified if she’s released,” Talia said.

Chris shared a look with John. They both knew that things like that often fell between the cracks.

“Shit.” John pushed away from the desk and took long strides to the door. Chris heard him call for someone named Tara. John returned moments later.

“We’re calling now to confirm Kate’s status.” There was a long silence. “If it is Kate, why would she return here?”

“Revenge,” Chris said.

“Finish the job she started,” Peter said.

“Neither of which would be good for us or Beacon Hills,” Talia added.

The phone rang and John snatched up the handset. “What did you find out?”

John’s shoulders relaxed and Chris immediately knew that Kate was still locked up. John confirmed that once he hung up.

“That’s the good news,” John said. “Bad news is that means Gerard is out there. We have to ask the same question about him as we did Kate: why?”

“I think the same answers apply,” Talia said. “Even if the reasoning is different.”

“Is there anyplace in town he could be staying?” Chris said.

“We cleaned out the rest of his hunters and keep a close eye out to make sure none of them come back,” Talia said.

“What are you thinking?” John said.

“If Gerard hasn’t been staying in town, or in the area, then there’s a mole. Someone had to have told him I was back in town.”

“That’s impossible,” John said, but he didn’t look fully convinced.

“If he didn’t see me with his own eyes, someone had to tell him I was here. That message . . .” Chris pointed at the computer. “Was for me.”

“Maybe not everything is about you,” Peter said, wincing at the sharpness of his tone.

“What do you think it might be?” John said before Chris could form the question.

“The same thing it’s been about since the beginning – those paintings.”

“You think Gerard is a drug dealer?” Chris actually found himself shocked by the suggestion.

“Why not?” Peter said. “He’s done much worse. And it would be a great way to fund a covert group of hunters.”

Chris wiped a hand over his face. “Jesus.”

Talia’s phone beeped and she checked her watch. “I have to return to the office. Peter will remain as my representative and work with you on behalf of the pack.”

Peter startled and gave Talia a look. They communicated silently for a few seconds before Peter inclined his head in reluctant acquiescence.

“Keep me informed,” Talia said before sweeping out the door.

There was a moment of silence in Talia’s wake. John was the first to move. He picked up a pen and pad from his desk and joined Chris and Peter at the table. “So, how do we figure out if this is really Gerard, and, if it is, how do we flush him out?”

~*~

They threw out ideas – some of which were long shots or seemed ludicrous. After half an hour of spinning their wheels they decided they needed more information. John called Araya Calavera to find out if she’d heard anything about the possibility of Gerard still being alive. Peter called representatives from other local packs to see if they’d noticed increased hunter activity over the past seven years.

Chris called Rafe.

“Gerard is still alive?”

“It appears that way,” Chris said.

“Are you alright?”

Chris recalled his earlier reaction. “I’m fine.”

Rafe didn’t call him on the lie. “What do you need me to do?”

Chris told him. They needed to check Kate’s visitor log and someone had to talk to her. It couldn’t be Chris.

John and Chris finished with their single phone call and waited for Peter to finish with the several he had to make. John left them alone for a few minutes and returned with three cups of coffee. Chris had spent the time staring at Peter’s lips and getting lost in the sound of his voice. He gratefully accepted the cup John handed off to him so he had something else to concentrate on.

Peter ended his final call and took a sip of coffee. “Thanks,” he said to John. “It was as I suspected. None of the packs have noticed any increased hunter activity in the area.”

“Why did you suspect that?” Chris said.

Peter gave Chris a long look before replying. “Because we have agreements to share information and to come to one another’s aid. We would’ve already heard if there had been attacks, but I thought it prudent to confirm that in the circumstances.”

There hadn’t been such widespread sharing before Chris had left, so it must’ve happened more recently. Chris’s stomach roiled. Possibly after the fire.

“That said,” Peter continued, seemingly unaware of Chris’s inner turmoil. “There have been rumors.”

“Rumors?” John prodded.

“Large scale attacks in larger cities – Denver, New Orleans, Albuquerque, Baltimore.”

“Why hadn’t you heard of those?” Chris asked.

“We had,” Peter said. “We just had no reason to connect them to Gerard Argent. And there was little we could do from here, other than prepare.”

John spoke, breaking the staring contest between Chris and Peter. The Calavera clan hadn’t heard anything about Gerard’s possible resurrection, but they were concerned in case it meant he’d been turned. In turn, Chris shared the gist of his conversation with Rafe.

“Rafe McCall?” Peter said, eyes wide.

“He’s my partner,” Chris said.

“Well, the world does work in mysterious ways,” Peter said.

“The question we need to be asking,” John said, interrupting them, “is this: If Gerard was in all of those places, what brought him back to Beacon Hills?”

“If he’s also behind the drugs, he was here before I arrived,” Chris said. 

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t lure you here,” John said. At Chris’s look, John explained. “He dumped a body in your jurisdiction that conveniently had a key to the Beacon Motor Inn on it.”

Chris’s blood ran cold. “You think he’s been pulling the strings all along?”

“What if the man you found had never been at the Beacon?” Peter postulated. “What if the key was a plant?”

“We need to show a photo of Gerard to the motel clerk,” Chris said.

After more discussion it was decided that Chris and John would visit the motel while Peter called back the local packs to warn them. If they could get a positive ID on Gerard still being alive, they’d put out a BOLO on him and maybe they’d get lucky.

“Please stay here,” Chris said to Peter before they left.

“I can take care of myself.”

“Not with Gerard. It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

Not that the Hale pack hadn’t already learned that the hard way.

Carla Weston was at the front desk when Chris and John entered the office. She glanced up, then away when they entered, more interested in whatever was airing on her television at this time in the morning. She did a double take when John’s uniform finally registered.

“Sheriff. What can I do for you?” She glared at Chris as if this interruption was all his fault.

“I need you to look at a photo.”

Weston inclined her head towards Chris. “That one already showed me a photo.”

“This is a different photo.” John set the photograph of Gerard Argent on the counter.

Carla gave the photo a cursory glance. “Don’t recognize him.”

“Are you sure?” Chris said sharply.

“It’s very important,” John said more diplomatically. “Could you take a closer look, please?”

Weston made a point of staring at the photo, then slowly said, “I. Don’t. Recognize him.”

“Is Judy Clement here?” Chris said.

Weston gave Chris a look. “What do you think?”

Chris and John walked the length of the motel, looking for any sign of Clement or the housekeeping cart. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t one.

Chris gave John the address for Judy Clement that he’d gotten from Carla Weston the last time he’d visited the motel. In all the flurry of trying to find the missing Gina Carlton, Chris had never spoken to her about the John Doe. They could kill two birds with one stone.

Clement’s house was run down – paint was peeling off the sides, the porch was leaning, and a handful of shingles lay on the front lawn, which was unmowed and brown. The boards sagged under their feet when they stepped onto the porch. Chris glanced at the newer model Toyota Corolla sitting in the rutted driveway as they waited for a response to John’s knock.

“Who is it?” a voice called through the closed door.

“It’s Sheriff Stilinski, Ms. Clement. I need to ask you some questions. It’ll just take a moment of your time.”

Clement opened the door a crack and peered out at them before stepping back and inviting them in. Chris noted the dust and dishes stacked on the counter before taking a good look at Clement. She was younger than Chris had expected; possibly mid-30s. She had on a t-shirt and sweat pants, both worn thin. The tv she’d been watching droned on in the background.

John showed Clement the photo of John Doe. She claimed never to have seen him.

“He spent some time at the Beacon Motor Inn,” Chris said.

“I only clean the rooms after they’ve checked out, so I wouldn’t have seen him.”

Given how often those rooms were cleaned, Chris wasn’t surprised that, if he’d actually stayed there, Clement had never seen their John Doe. Still, it meant they’d reached another dead end. Chris thought he was seeing things at first when Clement’s eye twitched at the sight of Gerard Argent, but John had seen it too.

“You recognize this man?”

“Yes,” Clement said. “Saw him on tv some years ago. He’s dead, ain’t he?”

Chris turned away to hide his disappointment and his gaze fell on the television – a brand new flat screen. Alarm bells went off. Chris interrupted John’s, “Thank you for your time,” spiel and said, “Nice tv, Ms. Clement. Is that new?”

“Yes. I just got it. My old one finally died.”

Clement sounded calm, but she was rubbing her thumb along her index finger.

“And the car in your driveway?”

Clement glared at Chris. “What exactly are you implying?”

Chris glanced at her fingers. Clement noticed and stopped rubbing them.

“You recognized this man.” Chris pointed to the photograph of Gerard.

“I already told you I did.”

“We believe he’s still alive,” John said. “Have you seen him recently, Ms. Clement?”

At the direct question, Clement had trouble formulating a lie. Finally she stopped trying. “Once. I got a phone call. Someone offered me ten thousand dollars for a key to one of the motel rooms. Any room. It was just a key, and we lose ‘em all the time, so I figured, what could the harm be?”

“When was this?” John said more gently than Chris would have.

Clement shrugged. “A couple months ago?”

“Did this man meet you for the trade?”:

“Not exactly. Someone else met me, but he was in the car. I saw him when the guy I met got back in. The light came on.”

John nodded. “Have you seen or heard from him since that night?”

Clement shook her head. “I haven’t, I swear.”

John thanked Judy Clement for her time and they left.

“Do you think she’s going to be alright?” Chris said as they got back into the cruiser.

“Gerard has already let you know he’s in town,” John said. “Probably moving things along because we hadn’t yet talked to Judy Clement.”

Chris rubbed his face. “Gerard has been in Beacon Hills for at least a couple of months. And the key was a plant to get me here.”

John gave Chris a concerned look as he navigated the cruiser onto the road that would take them back to the Sheriff Department. “I need to make some calls to the law enforcement in those areas where Peter said there’d been hunter activity.”

“Why?”

“If it was Gerard, and if he’s using drugs to fund his hunting activity . . .”

“There would be increased drug activity in those areas, as well,” Chris finished.

“In the meantime, you need to be careful.”

“I can take care of myself.” Chris had been eighteen when he’d run away from his father, but he was twenty years older and had more experience. He wasn’t going to run scared again.

“I’ll just remind you of something you said to Peter,” John said. “Gerard won’t fight fair.”

~*~

Peter was still at the station when they returned. Chris did his best to hide both his surprise and his relief.

“I want to hear what you found out,” Peter said, “then I’ve got to get back to the art gallery. Laura and Parrish have returned and I don’t want to leave the place unguarded.”

John told Peter what they’d learned.

“So Gerard has orchestrated this whole thing?” Peter said. “Sounds just like him. He never could stand it when he wasn’t in control.”

John mentioned the phone calls he wanted to make and got more detailed information from Peter so he could contact the correct agencies.

“Let me know what you find out,” Peter said as he started to leave.

John gave Chris a look.

“I’ll go with you,” Chris blurted.

At Peter’s glare, Chris said, “I’d like to check out Gina Carlton’s space again, just in case Gerard was actually there to search for something rather than merely let us know he’s alive.”

Peter gave Chris a grudging nod and left. Chris gathered up his messenger bag, gave John a nod, and followed Peter. Chris watched Peter pull out of the parking lot as he loaded his bag into the backseat of the Tahoe. Chris caught glimpses of Peter’s Lincoln ahead of him as he made his way through lunch hour traffic. Peter was already unlocking the front door of the gallery when Chris pulled into a parking spot. Peter would’ve sensed if there was anything off, but Chris looked around before he got out of the Tahoe anyway. He used the fob to lock the doors and followed Peter inside. Sun shone through the skylights, illuminating the hallway back to the office.

“Did you really come here to search Gina’s studio?” Peter said. “Or to keep an eye on me?”

“Uhm,” Chris said. “Can’t it be both? We’re missing something.”

Peter inclined his head. “Go ahead, then. I’ve got to make some phone calls to reschedule some deliveries.”

Chris kept on towards the stairway in the back after Peter turned into the office, then paused. “You locked the door, right?”

An annoyed, “Yes, Christopher,” sent a thrill through Chris that he did his best to ignore.

By the time Peter came to see how Chris was faring he’d checked everywhere he could think. He’d gone through the file cabinet again, he’d checked the paintings leaning against the wall more thoroughly, he’d pulled everything away from the walls to check for a hiding spot, and even pulled up the tarp that protected the floor beneath the easel.

“Find anything?” Peter stood in the doorway with his hands in the front pocket of his jeans. For the first time that day Chris realized that Peter was wearing the same clothes from the previous evening.

To take his attention off that, Chris answered Peter’s question with a short, “No.”

Chris was just thinking about starting the search over again when Peter spoke. “You’ve been pretty thorough.”

“Not thorough enough.”

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

“Gina’s disappearance?” Chris said.

“Gerard’s _re_ appearance.”

“If I hadn’t come back . . .”

“Gerard was already here,” Peter reminded him. “He drew you back.”

“Why?” Chris said. “Why, after all these years?”

“We’ll ask him when we see him,” Peter said.

Chris snorted. “Gerard won’t let us see him until he’s damned good and ready.”

“It’ll have to be soon,” Peter said. “You won’t be here for this case much longer.”

Chris ignored the stab of pain brought on by the thought of leaving again. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Peter shrugged. “It means you won’t have to wait too long. But if that didn’t make you feel better, I know something else that will.”

Chris wasn’t sure what his face gave away, but Peter raised an eyebrow. “Scotch, Christopher.”

Chris’s phone beeped with a text notification before they made it to Peter’s office and the bottle of scotch. Chris read the message once, then a second time in an attempt to parse it.

_Hey, daddy. Please meet me at 274 Willow Ave asap. It’s important._

Peter stopped when he realized that Chris was no longer following him. “What is it?”

“A text from Allison. But it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Who’s Allison?”

“My daughter.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “A conversation for another time.” Peter held out his hand and Chris placed the phone in it. Peter read the message. “274 Willow,” Peter said.

“Yes,” Chris said, even though it hadn’t been a question. That was the address of the house where Chris had lived while he was in high school.

“Why would Allison want to meet you there?”

“More importantly, why would she even be in Beacon Hills? And she never . . .” Chris’s voice caught. “She’s never called me ‘daddy’.”

“Okay,” Peter said. “So if it’s from Allison, she’s trying to alert you to something.”

“Gerard has her,” Chris said, feeling the other shoe drop. His stomach twisted at the thought.

“Or he spoofed her phone somehow. Either way.” Peter grabbed Chris’s arm before he could rush past him. “You’re not going off half-cocked. We need a plan.”

~*~

Chris pulled into the driveway at 274 Willow and braked. He shoved down the memories that came rushing back and waited for the report.

“No life signs inside the house,” came Peter’s voice in Chris’s ear.

Unsurprising, since Gerard had installed a sound-proofed room in the basement. “That might change, so keep someone on the house.”

“Naturally. There are two behind the house and six in the surrounding woods.”

“There’s probably just as many inside the house, so be careful.”

“You, too,” Peter said after a pause.

Chris pulled farther into the driveway and shut off the engine. A moment later Allison appeared from around the back of the house. She raised one hand in greeting, but didn’t come any closer.

Chris got out of the Tahoe. “Hey, Allie-bug.”

“Hey, dad.”

“What are you doing in Beacon Hills?”

“Long story. I’m sorry . . .” Allison’s voice caught. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“That’s okay. You can tell me now.”

“That’s far enough.” Gerard stepped out from the shelter of the house, stopping Chris’s forward progress towards Allison. Even already knowing that Gerard was still alive, the sight of him made everything inside of Chris go numb.

Gerard placed a possessive hand on Allison’s shoulder. Chris saw her wince and wanted nothing more than to punch Gerard. His father must’ve seen the desire in his face because he raised the gun that had been held at his side and pointed it at Chris. Allison gasped.

“Don’t come any closer, Chris.”

“I’m so sorry, dad,” Allison said, tears filling her eyes.

“It’s alright, Allie.” To Gerard, Chris said, “Let her go.”

Gerard gave a mirthless laugh. “I can’t do that. Allison is my future, you see. You ran away and Kate’s in jail, so she’s all I have left.”

“You don’t _have_ me,” Allison spoke up bravely, despite her obvious fear.

“From what I hear you’ve been doing well for yourself. Denver, New Orleans . . .”

Gerard waved the hand holding the gun. “I’m talking about the Argent family legacy. If my children can’t, or won’t, carry on the family business, my granddaughter will.”

“Allison isn’t a hunter,” Chris argued.

“And whose fault is that? You were a _coward_!” Spittle flew from Gerard’s mouth.

“Because I didn’t want to kill people merely because they existed?”

“They aren’t people, they’re werewolves, _monsters_!”

“Only in your warped mind,” Chris said. “As far as I’m concerned, _you’re_ the monster.”

Gerard had been so involved in his argument with Chris that he’d forgotten about Allison. His grip loosened and she took the opportunity to try to escape. Caught by surprise, Gerard swung his gun arm in Allison’s direction.

“No!” Chris cried out, leaping forward.

Before Gerard could fire the weapon, Peter came up behind him and grabbed his gun arm with his left hand. Peter placed the claws of his right hand against Gerard’s throat.

“Go ahead, try something. Give me a reason. Please.”

Chris’s knees had gone weak with relief, but he managed to catch Allison when she threw herself at him.

John came up to stand beside the other two men. “Peter.”

“He tried to burn my entire family alive,” Peter said, pain in his voice.

“I know.” John placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Talia appeared. She gave Chris and Allison a glance before moving to stand in front of Gerard. She stared at him, and Gerard stared defiantly back at her. Talia turned her attention to Peter and ignored Gerard as if he wasn’t standing between them.

“Killing him would only make him a martyr. As it stands, he’s been forgotten. He’s nothing. Unimportant.”

Gerard raged, but no one paid him any mind.

“Then what are we going to do with him?” Peter said. “To the world he’s already dead, anyway.”

“We’ll take him,” Araya Calavera said.

Chris turned in surprise, but it was John who spoke. “How did you get here so quickly?”

“There are these neat things called airplanes . . .”

John rolled his eyed, but Allison snorted a soft laugh into Chris’s shoulder, so he couldn’t be too annoyed.

Araya Calavera, head of the Calavera hunters, walked right up to Gerard, standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Talia Hale, alpha of the Hale pack. “Gerard Argent. It’s been a long time. I’ve so been hoping to run into you again.”

Gerard started yelling for his hunters to ‘shoot them all’ and other things that were too incoherent to make out. The hunters started appearing from the woods, led by the Hales and Deputy Parrish. Their hands were cuffed behind them and they sported various injuries – black eyes, bloody noses, and sprained ankles.

Chris learned later that there hadn’t been anyone inside the house – those six men were the extent of Gerard’s new hunter ‘empire’.

“Peter,” Chris said. Tears burned behind his eyes when Peter’s anguished gaze met his. “Come meet my daughter. Preferably without Gerard’s blood all over you.”

Allison gave another shocky laugh.

Peter released Gerard and took a shaky step back. Talia caught Peter and Araya slapped the gun that he’d somehow managed to hold onto out of Gerard’s hand.

“You can have him,” John told Araya as he cuffed Gerard. “But we have two dead bodies, a missing woman, and a drug distribution ring, so we need to ask him some questions before you take him away.”

“I believe we can work out an arrangement,” Araya said.

“So.” Allison sniffled. “Werewolves are real?”

“It’s a long story,” Chris said. “I probably should have told you about it before.”

“You can tell me now,” Allison said.

~*~

Two nights later Chris, John and Peter were having drinks at The Full Moon Tavern – which Peter insisted wasn’t owned by a werewolf. Chris was on his second beer; John had stopped at one and Peter was drinking something stronger.

“I am glad to put this one to bed,” John said.

Gerard had at first refused to anser any of their questions, but then they couldn’t shut him up. Most of it was gibberish, the ravings of a mad man, but there had been some kernels of useful information sprinkled throughout. Gerard was currently on a private jet with the Calaveras and Araya had promised to tell them if Gerard let slip anything more about the case.

Since Gerard’s drug operation had gone interstate, John had been happy to turn that over to the DEA. And to wrap the case up with a mostly happy bow, Gina Carlton had contacted Peter to confirm whether it was safe for her to come back home.

“Hear, hear,” Chris said with forced enthusiasm, then hid his face behind another sip of beer.

“Well, on that encouraging note, I’ve got to get going. Peter, I’ll see you later on. Chris, don’t be a stranger.” John clapped a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Oh, and don’t forget that Melissa wants to see you before you leave town. Again.”

Chris groaned.

“Yep,” John said cheerfully. “It’s gonna be just as fun as you imagine.”

Peter raised his glass to John in farewell and waited for him to get out of hearing range before speaking. “You’re not happy the case is closed?”

“Of course I’m happy about that,” Chris said. “Rah, rah.”

Peter snorted. “What’s the problem, then?”

“What isn’t? But let’s start with Gerard. He . . . he made me feel like I was a kid again.” Chris had completely lost whatever equilibrium he’d gained over the past twenty years.

“I wanted to kill him,” Peter said.

“Part of me wanted you to kill him. I wanted to know he wasn’t going to come back again. I wanted those feelings of, of inadequacy to go away again. And he touched Allison.”

“Speaking of Allison,” Peter said, “how’d your talk with her go?”

Chris was so discombobulated by everything that had happened in the past week that he wasn’t even fazed by the change in topic. “It’s . . . on-going. But good, I think.”

His relationship with Allison had been brief visits and birthday presents and help with the cost of a semester abroad, but they hadn’t really talked. It was a new dimension to their relationship.

“When will you be leaving?” Peter said, his tone overly casual.

“I don’t know.” At Peter’s look, Chris said, “I’m thinking of taking some time off.”

“And spending it here?”

“Allison’s going to school here. I think we need to spend some more time together after . . . everything.” Everything with Gerard and suddenly finding out that werewolves were real and her father’s family had been hunters.

“You think a week is gonna do it?”

Chris ignored Peter’s sarcasm. “I was also hoping to renew some old friendships.” He raised his eyes and looked directly into Peter’s.

“And then what? Long-distance . . . friendships?”

“I thought . . . I thought I might move back.” Chris hadn’t realized he was considering it until the words came out. Gerard had taken so much from Chris, it was time he started taking it back.

“Back to Beacon Hills?”

“Yes.” Chris smiled.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I was just thinking of the saying about the best revenge being living well.”

“And is that what you plan to do?”

“Sounds better than merely existing.”

“Does it.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Peter raised his eyebrows at the question. “Do you think the other night would’ve happened if I was seeing someone?”

“If you weren’t exclusive.”

“If we’re not exclusive, then it doesn’t matter.”

Chris chuckled. “Fair point. Can I take you out to dinner?”

“Tonight?”

“Whatever night works for you.”

Peter turned serious. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“You’ll sleep with me, but you won’t have dinner with me?”

“A one-night stand when you’re going to be leaving again is different than a dinner when you’re thinking of staying.”

“Ahh, of course. Take all the time you need.”

Peter let out a deep breath and looked relieved, as if he’d been afraid Chris was going to argue. “What would you do if you stayed?”

“For work?”

Peter nodded.

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Security, maybe?”

Peter remained silent and Chris didn’t push. Finally Peter spoke.

“If you want to take me out to dinner, I think it’s important that we establish that we’re . . . compatible.”

“Compatible? As in . . . ?” Chris gestured.

“Yes, as in . . .” Peter copied the gesture.

“We’ve always been compatible. I think the other night proved that we still are.”

“It’s best to be certain, don’ t you think?”

“Now, you mean?”

“Do you have anything better to do?”

Chris smiled at the wording.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I already regret saying that.”

“The answer is no,” Chris said. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Well, then.” Peter tossed some bills on the table for the tip and stood.

Chris did the same and followed Peter out of the bar. He couldn’t stop smiling even as his heart thudded in his chest. He’d lost this when he left Beacon Hills, and he’d never thought he could have it back again. But maybe there was still a chance. He grinned as he imagined the expression on Gerard’s face if he ever discovered that he’d been responsible for bringing Chris and Peter back together again.

Peter turned and frowned. “Now what are you smiling about?”

“Just happy,” Chris said, and took the next step towards his future.

The End

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART: cover for "the past beats inside me"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546167) by [Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/pseuds/Green)




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